Eric remained perfectly still. It was as if the boxes were still towering in front of him rather than busted on the floor leaving him vulnerable. Those eyes seemed to be piercing straight through him, and that voice...that fucking voice haunted him, taunted him to come out. And for a brief moment (extremely brief), he almost did. For a brief moment, he actually thought of stepping out and revealing himself, but he could not muster up the courage or stupidity to do so.
“Eric?" John called out again.
While part of Eric not only wanted to believe the voice belonged to John but actually did believe it, subconsciously, he felt differently. Under ordinary circumstances, the feeling in his gut and the voices in his head—which also protested the fact the voice, indeed, belonged to John—would have been victor in this bout, hands down, but not today; not under these circumstances; not in the Cahill Manor. He could not trust anything in this house except for—
No.
He wasn’t sure if she—Isabella—could be trusted either, in all honesty.
Therefore, there were no exceptions, and that was probably for the best, come to think of it; simply because he should have been able to pinpoint John’s voice in a large crowd without any second-guessing; he had always been able to do so. But this house somehow interfered with his instincts, forcing this voice not to vibe well with him.
Without the ability to trust his gut, Eric remained hidden. It seemed plausible at the moment because with the minimal lighting, and the remainder of boxes, storage containers, and other various items throwing numerous shadows all about the room, it was damn near impossible to see anything in this room (although the stranger’s eyes still seemed to be peering directly at him).
“Eric?” John whispered again.
Yes, Eric thought. I’m here. So come and get me Ra—
“Eric?” John scowled. Slightly more than a whisper this time, and there was no mistaking the frustration behind it. While the whispering had been tough enough for Eric not to be able to determine the host behind it, the full-fledged voice speaking now was an even more perilous conquer. “Are you here, Eric?”
No, Eric thought. He wanted to scream it at the top of his lungs but refrained from doing so. I’m not here. Nothing here but us boxes. Now go away.
“Eric? It’s me, John!”
Is it really? While it was still preposterous to believe, it seemed more logical than ever now. Eric assumes that he (Raymond) would not have known John’s name...not without some kind of encounter. It was now that Eric pictured him (Raymond) and John going at it. John, of course, losing because he was no fighter and never had been. While adrenaline would have definitely aided John, it would have done nothing for him in a battle against a neurotic, psychopathic murderer. John was dead...or dying.
Or he’s standing right in front of you, a voice inside his head spoke up as plain as day. The voice of reason. The voice of logic. The voice Eric had always associated with John. It was more than ironic that this voice would be the one trying to convince him John was actually standing in front of him.
Either way, Eric believed he was done for. If he continued to sit quietly allowing the figure to linger in front of him was John, then John would eventually leave, and probably sooner rather than later. John would go back downstairs and search the rest of the house. If that was the case, Eric imagined John rendered helpless, completely oblivious to his (Raymond’s) existence. John would undoubtedly suffer the same fate the Cahills had suffered.
On the other hand, if it was him (Raymond) standing there, and Eric continued to sit quietly, then what? Who knew? Eric assumed he (Raymond) might go back downstairs and wait at the front door for Eric. He could definitely outlast little Eric Richardson in a last man standing contest because (he’s like you and I, but different in so many ways) he isn’t normal. Eventually, Eric would get hungry and/or thirsty—both, most likely—and he would have to go downstairs. That, or morning—assuming, of course, Eric could even last until morning’s first light—would eventually come. And then what?
Well, when his own parents haven’t heard from him by a certain time (lunch, probably), his mother would call. She would call John’s house first, assuming the boys were exhausted and still sleeping the fatigue and the hangover from a sugar-high off. The Richardsons and the Parkers would find out they had all been deceived. The dads would wait patiently to give their boys stern and justifiable lectures and hollow threats to whoop their asses the next time something like this happened in front of the mothers, only to contradict themselves later by telling John and Eric later on in private that they, too, had been boys once and completely understood. The mothers, however, would freak out, overreact drastically, and probably alert the police of two missing boys that had not quite been gone long enough to legally be declared missing. Mrs. Richardson would undoubtedly call the cell phone she had given Eric strictly for purposes along these lines; the very phone that Eric had carelessly left in one of the duffle bags to prevent himself from losing or destroying it.
A lot of good that did him now. The phone would ring its annoying little monotone. And then what?
Would he (Raymond) answer it?
Probably, Eric thought. That was assuming he heard it ring. Then what?
Raymond would undoubtedly try to lure Eric’s parents here. What Raymond would have to say to be able to lure them here wasn’t important because it would not take much convincing. The Richardsons were a gullible crew as evidence by how the boys had been able to come here in the first place. Then what?
Hold them captive until I—or me and John, if John’s alive—come out of hiding? No. He’ll kill ’em all. Just as he killed his entire family.
Eric broke it off immediately. He made his decision and didn’t need any more distractions like the “what ifs” or “how comes” or “then whats” obstructing the task at hand. He popped up, fully revealing himself before he lost the courage, just as the figure spoke again.
“Eric? We have to go,” John said as his eyes locked instantly on to...was that Eric? There was no way he could tell for sure, but he inched towards the figure with a sense of urgency.
Eric didn’t speak as he watched the figure move towards him. In order to keep the last little element of surprise, he thought it best to be quiet. Not sure why, Eric took a cautious step towards the center of the room, being careful not to trip and fall again. He didn’t need to see any more blood or bicuspids for one night. On this thought, he pressed his tongue to the bottom of his teeth and began trolling for the other loose tooth. No luck. It must have fallen out while he was talking to Isabella. Probably swallowed it, he thought.
John took another step forward as well, drearily. “Eric? Are you here?” His voice was now suitable for normal conversation but still disguised to Eric.
Eric still could not place a finger on who it was, so he stuck to his plan and moved again. Two steps this time. Now no longer camouflaged by any boxes, he stood tall, surprisingly proud. A minuscule dark splotch amongst a thousand or more shadows.
John took a step backwards, shocked at the audacity of this stranger. “Eric? Is that you, man?”
Eric no longer tried to recognize the voice. He was a man (so to speak) on a mission, hell-bent on spooking his visitor into revealing himself. He moved wistfully forward, making it to the approximate center of the room in no time flat, one of his feet bumping one of the candles unintentionally. The candle fell to its side with a relatively loud THUMP, amplified by the emptiness of the room.
“Eric?” John took another step back. “Quit messing around, man.”
Eric was far beyond the point of ‘quitting’ or ‘messing around’ now. His mind leaned closer and closer to the fact that it was Raymond who lingered in front of him; not his best friend John Parker but the previously unknown Raymond Cahill. After all, this particular hypothesis would explain why Eric didn’t recognize the voice.
Eric stepped forward again. Three steps this time. Not baby steps as the previous ones either but long, vali
ant strides. He knocked over the two remaining candles resting in the middle of the floor in the process and did not bother stopping and listening to the two simultaneous THUMPS or the corresponding echoes.
“Eric? Please.”
To hell with you, Eric thought. Beg all you want. It won’t do you any good. Eric wanted to punish Raymond; he needed to do so. His own safety—perhaps John’s as well—depended on it.
Eric sprinted forward, closing the remaining distance between himself and the stranger in a matter of seconds, reaching out with both arms as he neared. “Surprise,” he wanted to scream. But it would be pointless to do so since his vague attempt to first grasp and possibly throttle whomever it was failed miserably; not because he was too slow and not quite agile enough but simply because the stranger moved. As Eric made his tactical move, the stranger stepped backwards, ducking beneath Eric’s flailing reach.
The situation went from bad to worse (Eric missing) in mere seconds, but then the positive aspect of this ugly cloud reared its beautiful head. At least in Eric’s mind, it was the unseen benefit for the time being.
*****
John honestly believed the odds of this being Eric was a thousand to one. Hell, a million to one. John’s left foot left the comfort of the hardwood floor and danced over...nothing; nothing but thin air. The stairs, he thought, horrified.
But it was too late to rethink that final step now.
John stood on one leg, arms outstretched, but neither one quite long enough to grab the wall leading into the room. He merely teetered back and forth, now using his arms to try and regain his balance like a circus performer walking the tight rope. Unfortunately, he had no balancing pole to aid him or no bungee cord secured to his waist or no safety net beneath him to catch him safely if he may fall. And now he prayed that the stranger’s arms would once more reach out. This time, they would grab him because he could not duck or elusively step back. What may happen next after the stranger grabbed him did not matter. He would cross that bridge when—if—he came to it.
But since it seemed like John would not be grabbed, the fall appeared eminent. And since he could not reach the inside of the doorway and he imagined if he tried putting his other foot down atop the second step his weight would send him even further backwards, tumbling down the stairs.
In any case, John knew he would not be able to stand like this for long, and no sooner than the certainty of this thought set in, his leg began to cramp. He fought it, tightening his leg and calf muscles, hoping it would subside quickly. It didn’t. Instead, his leg began to shake and throb violently thanks to the extra strain. His leg buckled, shifting his weight much like a counterweight. He flailed backwards.
Eric, acting instinctively and no way else, reached out and tried to grab the stranger. His own fingertips raked lightly against the stranger’s fingertips, but that was it. He could not grasp them. The stranger fell to the stairs. His head made a loud CRACK as it hit. But Eric grabbed again, and this time, he secured a hand around one of the stranger’s ankles; he was just able to hold the stranger in place and keep him from sliding head first down to the second floor.
In this instance, Eric was a hero again, that Bruce Willis type action hero, finally confronting and having the villain (his foe) teetering on the brink of death. Emotionally, he felt triumphant. Subconsciously, though, he had a dilemma - a moral dilemma that would not only affect the remainder of the night, but quite possibly the rest of his life as well.
If Eric pulled him up safely and the stranger turned out to be Raymond, then what?
While the element of surprise still stood somewhat strong, Eric could jerk him up and pin him down immediately. But then what? How long would it take before this stranger overpowered Eric, turned the tables so to speak, and pinned Eric down?
Not long. Eric knew this much. But if he let the stranger go, and it turned out to really be John, then what?
For starters, he would slide down the stairs; a concussion would be the best case scenario but a broken neck was plausible. Of course, the possibility of John surviving without any injuries whatsoever was there, but with the way their luck ran on this night, it was doubtful. And if John was still alive at the bottom of the stairs, then what?
For one, there were only a few feet between the base of the staircase and the banister overlooking the first floor. Sliding down the stairs would surely bestow enough momentum to carry John across the empty floor to the banister. Then what?
John would crash into the railing. There was no doubt in Eric’s mind that John would roll or slide straight through it. After all, Eric had witnessed the weakness of the banister first hand. He crashed straight through it without even slowing with far less momentum than John would have. Then what?
Eric knew John probably would not be able to grab a hold of something like he, himself, had been able to do. Eric knew if the tumbled down the stairs didn’t kill John, the one story fall to the hardwood floor beneath surely would.
Decision time...
*****
John felt the fingertips of the stranger brush against his own, and in this second, he didn’t care if it was Eric Richardson or Raymond Cahill. It didn’t matter. Survival was all that mattered. While suffering a potential torturous death at the hands of a psychopathic murderer would be bad, it had to be better than falling and perhaps paralyzing himself. Right?
In any case, the fingers slipped through his own, and he had time to think his life was about to be over. The thought flashed just seconds before his head smacked the steps; everything went black. He never felt the hand grasp his ankle.
*****
“C’mon, John,” Eric told himself. “Let’s do this.” He was not referring to John Parker, his best friend for as long as he could remember, but rather John McLain, the unorthodox hero from the Die Hard movies which just happened to be Eric’s favorite movies and Bruce Willis his favorite actor. Eric envisioned himself a hero again. “C’mon, John. You can do this. Just make your move quickly.” And it was working.
Everything seemingly melted away in this house, and the same scene he imagined himself in earlier came floating back. It was the ledge again, but only this time he wasn’t the one fearing for his life. Eric did next what he truly believed John McLain would have done in this situation. He pulled forward with all of his might, jerking the stranger to safety with relative ease.
Pulling the crafty villain to safety and in turn, forcing the villain to suffer a life in prison serving consecutive life sentences rather than allowing the villain the sweet, sweet release of death was exactly what John McLain would have done. Of course, John McLain would have more than likely shot and killed the villain in the next scene when the villain made a last ditch effort to finish out his run, but that didn’t matter. Eric could only pray the stranger (this potential villain) would not do the same.
Eric had pulled so hard the stranger nearly came down right on top of him. Eric wisely let go, though, and stepped aside. He envisioned all of the possible scenarios in his head beforehand, and reluctantly enough, this had been one of those. He had seen it and planned for it.
The stranger slid into a stack of boxes and storage containers. Eric pounces without a moment’s hesitation while the boxes continued to rain down. He heard a few exasperated grunts from the stranger but didn’t let them stop him. He has to be quick, cat-like speed, and paid homage to another cat-like ability as he had been in the dark long enough for his eyes to adjust and a smidgen of nocturnal vision had taken hold.
Eric’s pounce landed him directly atop the stranger just as planned. He placed his knees on the stranger’s shoulders, deeming the stranger’s arms useless. Eric’s hands went instinctively to the stranger’s throat. The stranger seemed dazed, shortly, and struggled to toss Eric aside nonetheless; then he went limp, but not because of Eric’s hands around his throat. Eric had not applied even moderate pressure. He uses this only as a precautionary measure; it wasn’t volatile. However, if the stranger began to overpower him, Eric wo
uld then tighten his grip.
The stranger went limp because he, too, was exhausted (just as exhausted as Eric, himself, if not more, but Eric had no way of knowing this). The stranger had no more fight left in him, and so he spoke “Eric? What in the hell are you doing? It’s me! It’s John!”
*****
John remained unconscious for only seconds. His eyes fluttered. He caught a glimpse of light from a small window somewhere above. Darkness encompassed the remainder of the room. He has time to realize he had no clue as to where he was before—
His feet hit first. Something soft. Something with a little give. It didn’t have time to register to him on what he hit (nor did he care) before it started falling.
Boxes!
Boxes fell left and right. They fell in many directions. A few landed atop him. He let out a few exasperated grunts as a rather large and heavy one fell onto his stomach.
Before he could even so much as begin to move any of the boxes, someone leapt atop him. More grunts escaped his lips. It all came back to him in a flash. He remembered exactly where he was, why he was here, and what he was supposed to be doing. Next thing he knew, a pressure comes down on his shoulders; his arms were pinned; a pair of hands closed around his throat. John fought shortly but gave up quickly. He was just too exhausted.
He never once gave up hope on the idea that the person straddling and throttling him was Eric and so he spoke “Eric? What in the hell are you doing? It’s me! It’s John!”
*****
Eric felt a bit compassionate. But that voice? It burned through his head. His fingers flexed. The hands around the stranger’s throat clinched momentarily. He felt as if he was being possessed. Isabella. He didn’t like this feeling.
“Eric?” John struggled out. “Stop!”
That voice pierced through Eric’s mind, seeming to fuel rather than stop him. His hands clinched tighter and tighter.
“Eric?” John tried to scream, but it came out muffled and indiscreet. “Eric?” John’s face began turning red. “It’s me.” His throat began to constrict. “It’s John.” Numbness settled in comfortably in his extremities. “John Parker.,” he muttered as his vision clouded over.
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